


Green New Deal

by FrenchTwistResistance



Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [4]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, I just want caos to be a sitcom where hot middle-aged ladies kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22412398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Hilda and Mary have been doing things together. But now they’re going places together.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597594
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	Green New Deal

Hilda is stretching salt water taffy. It’s a newly acquired recipe, and she figures it’s a good enough substitute for lat pull downs. She’s been rather gymnasium-averse since she’d had a mishap with the electric camel in 1916, but still she doesn’t like to be idle, and if Mary is going to keep roping her into increasingly bizarre physical activities, she’s got to do something to keep up.

The taffy recipe had been a side benefit of her and Mary’s jaunt to Saratoga. They’d made a gambling weekend of it—first to collect what was owed, then to play the ponies for themselves, then to leisurely drive down to hit Atlantic City. Mary had proved more adept at roulette and craps, fortunately. 

And anyway Hilda had needed a cover story, and Zelda usually believed her when she claimed to be conferencing with an out-of-town expert on a particular sweet. She’d used a similar excuse to get away for a few days on many occasions before and would probably again—as long as she continued to deliver the goods it would remain a viable alibi.

Now Hilda’s rolling salt water taffy. She’s careful and precise and measured, and her hands and shoulders are aching. She’s got the classic rock station on for company—or noise, as it were. And Sabrina bursts into the kitchen just as Hilda’s finishing with the rolling.

Sabrina skids to a halt just past the threshold, her hand over the phone receiver, her brow scrunching at the loud AC/DC. She juggles the receiver against her shoulder as she gropes for the volume nob on the radio, says,

“It’s Miss Kingston for you.” Like heaven it is, Hilda thinks.

Hilda rinses her hands as she rolls her eyes. Sabrina sees this, assumes, says,

“It’s not my fault! I don’t know why she’s calling! I’ve got an A in pre-calc!”

“I know you do, opossum. I check Parent Portal,” Hilda says as she dries her hands on an embroidered tea towel. She extends her hand, and the exchange is made. She finishes, “Whatever it is, I’ll take care of it.” Hilda nods, and Sabrina nods, and Sabrina exits.

Hilda sits on a barstool at the kitchen island, huffs into the phone,

“Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice—”

“Miss Spellman?” Miss Kingston’s actual buttery southern drawl says in the static.

“Oh! My apologies! I thought you were someone else. Um—” Hilda says.

“Oh. Well. I— I just wanted to thank you for having my back last month at Quilting and Cognac. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you…”

“Oh that’s not necessary.” But Hilda’s mind is already reeling with all the things those triceps might be capable of.

“Well. Regardless. I consider myself in your debt.”

The silent pause between them is suddenly punctuated by a furious beeping on Hilda’s end.

“I appreciate your spirit of reciprocation,” Hilda says. “But I must go. There’s another call coming in.”

“Oh. Oh! I don’t want to keep you. I’ll talk to you later,” Miss Kingston says.

“Yes. Sooner rather than later, hopefully,” Hilda says.

They both chuckle a nervous little chuckle, and the call ends. The call ends for another to begin:

“Ah’d lahk to speak with Miss Hilda Spellman,” that horrible approximation of a southern accent says.

“Cut to the chase, Wardwell,” Hilda says.

Mary Wardwell laughs a low, throaty laugh. And then she says in her own voice,

“Did you receive my package?”

Hilda knows no one is within earshot, but she lowers her voice to a whisper anyway, still a little giddy from having spoken to her crush. Her other crush? She’s not sure how to classify Wardwell on the crush scale. With Kingston it’s wholesome little butterflies and swooning. With Wardwell it’s more sparks and groaning. Regardless, she’s giddy and feeling flirtatious and says,

“I believe I’ve received your package on several occasions.”

Again Mary laughs and then she says,

“Hmm yes but. A literal package. Delivered by the postal service.”

Hilda’s eyes flit to her taffy, the doorway through which Sabrina had entered and exited, the tea towel, the front door, half-heartedly searching for something she knows isn’t there.

“I haven’t checked the mail today,” Hilda says.

“You know I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to live your life. But you might want to check the mail.”

Even as Mary’s slick voice is talking, Hilda’s walking toward the entryway.

“Hold on a sec,” Hilda says as she wedges the receiver between two pairs of ugly loafers on the shelf and proceeds to the porch. There’s a generic cardboard box, 4x8x11 ish, propped up against the storm door. There’s no return address, just her name and address electronically printed on a tidy white sticker. She picks up the box. Not much weight to it, no jangling. She walks back inside with it, picks up the phone.

“Hello again,” Hilda says.

“You’ve received it, then?” Mary says, voice low and conspiratorial.

“Yes,” Hilda says.

The cardboard box is now sitting on the counter. Hilda finds it a rather ominous presence somehow.

“Open it,” Mary says.

Hilda pulls a steak knife from the wooden holder and slashes gingerly at packing tape.

Tissue paper and then.

A midnight blue silk gown.

Hilda pulls it out and shakes it out. Full length and fitted, a slit up the left side, thin shoulder straps. It’s the kind of thing that’s supposed to be worn without underwear. It’s the kind of thing that’s supposed to be worn when there’s a certain kind of expectation. And it’s suspiciously perfectly her size. The perils of taking off one’s clothes in the presence of a sneaky woman one doesn’t exactly trust, she supposes.

“What’s this, then?” Hilda says.

“Put it on. And I’ll pick you up,” Mary says.

“I’m kind of in the middle of something just now.”

“Bullshit,” Mary says. “I want to see you in the dress I bought you. And you want to be seen in it. I’ll give you an hour.”

The line goes dead. 

Hilda’s at her vanity making sure her hair is exactly right and her lipstick is exactly right. There’s no room for undergarments, and Hilda puts on the dress, slides it against her naked flesh, wiggles and writhes. She looks at herself in the full-length mirror on her bedroom door. A picture is there, but Hilda’s not sure what kind of picture it is, or why the picture has been developed.

She’s gotten kind of tentatively used to Mary calling her out of the blue and aggressively requesting her to do something weird. And she wouldn’t be acquiescing if she didn’t like it. But this seems out of the norm. Surely Mary wouldn’t be making her help split wood or take a Krav Maga class in this get up—two other activities they’d engaged in recently.

She writes a note that there’s a Mary Poppins screening the county over that she has impulsively decided to go to and places it on Zelda’s vanity—it’s the same story she’s told Sabrina and Ambrose but wants to cover her bases—wraps her raincoat tightly around herself as camouflage, and silently descends the stairs.

But her fantasy of discretion dissipates as a silver Jaguar convertible purrs its way up the drive, slow in a conspicuous way. And of course Mary Wardwell is there in the driver's seat in a tuxedo, the untied bow tie draped at the open collar.

“Satan in Hell, Wardwell! Why didn’t you just rent a hot air balloon?! I thought we were a secret!” Hilda angry whispers as she rushes toward the passenger door. Mary chuckles and casually puts up a hand, and Hilda is supernaturally arrested, stuck mid-stride. Mary approaches her and carefully unknots the belt of her coat, pushes it down her inert shoulders sensually, removes it. She tosses the orange vinyl monstrosity onto the hood of the car and then leans back on it on her elbows. She looks Hilda up and down with those bright weird eyes and then says,

“A secret? I think we have a misunderstanding. Who’d want to keep you a secret? Especially in this dress?” She languidly pushes herself up and grabs the coat. She takes the few remaining steps to the passenger door and throws the coat into the backseat. She waves off the magic that has stilled Hilda and opens the door and gestures for her to enter the car. Hilda huffs and smooths her dress, slumps into the seat as haughtily as she can muster. But truth be told, she’s veritably tingling with excitement. Mary wears the heaven out of a suit, and here she is buying her presents and opening doors for her and looking at her as if she’s prime rib. It’s a little intoxicating. Suspicious and strange, but intoxicating nonetheless.

“A little chilly to have the top down,” Hilda says. Mary slides into the driver's seat, says,

“If you get cold, you’ll just have to cuddle up to me, I guess.”

“This contraption has bucket seats.”

“I was under the impression you rather enjoyed sitting in my lap.”

Mary puts it in gear and drives a little closer to the house to make her u-turn. Hilda sees Ambrose and Sabrina at different windows looking at her with the same face—a flabbergasted, open-mouthed face. She gives a weak smile and a wave. Once the vehicle is headed away, she turns to Mary with a little heat,

“That’s why I don’t trust your driving. You’re more interested in being nasty than watching the road!”

“Does this count as our first fight?” Mary smirks as she upshifts and then reaches over to place her hand on Hilda’s knee, and it’s hot even through the silk. Hilda sighs. She won’t take the bait about fighting just to make up or whatever it is that Mary wants to goad her into. She says instead,

“So? Where are we headed? Mud wrestling?” Mary cuts her eyes toward her briefly but then back to the shadowed gravel curves.

“No, darling. Turkish oil wrestling is on the calendar for next weekend.”

She removes her hand from Hilda’s knee, upshifts again, and turns up the radio. It’s the classic rock station that Hilda puts on for noise sometimes but doesn’t really like because it has too many advertisements for strip clubs. But it seems right for the occasion. Whatever occasion this might turn out to be.

They’ve been driving for twenty minutes, and Hilda’s got goosebumps. She reaches behind her, groping for her raincoat.

She’s plunged into the dash as Mary brakes hard. They’re suddenly stopped at the top of a hill on a deserted two-lane blacktop, and Mary is snatching the raincoat out of the backseat and jogging around to the trunk. She reemerges holding a dark mass. Hilda can’t quite tell what it is until it’s plopped unceremoniously in her lap, the individual hairs of it tickling her arms.

“I knew you’d try to pull something like this. Synthetic and tacky just won’t do,” Mary says as she retakes her spot at the wheel. Hilda reluctantly dons the fur coat, the silk lining gliding deliciously against the silk of her dress and the silk of her skin. “And before you say anything, First Runner Up Miss Vegetarian Massachusetts 1986, it was made ethically and sustainably by Native Americans.”

Hilda can’t find a good reply to that, so she stays silent and changes the radio station. NPR is playing an opera she doesn’t recognize, and she concentrates on translating the German so she doesn’t think too much about how much Mary Wardwell has thought about her.

Another twenty minutes and they’re in a town. Not a city, but a big enough place to have imposing limestone structures lining its lit-up, bustling square. Mary pulls into the circle drive of the largest building on the block. The modern scrolling digital sign out front says it’s a credit union. A valet in a cute little burgundy cap and vest takes Mary’s keys—or as Hilda suspects, Mary’s borrowed or even stolen keys—and Mary ambles over to open Hilda’s door. They walk together, arm in arm, through the granite lobby with abstract sculptures suspended from the ceiling to the shining brass-plated elevator.

“Is this a good time to ask what’s going on?” Hilda says. Mary raises a hand to her chin in mock contemplation, says,

“It might well be. But I still wouldn’t tell you.”

The elevator dings at the topmost floor. The doors open, and there’s a bare corridor, a set of ornate mahogany double doors, and a man in a dark suit with an iPad.

“We’re on the list,” Mary says. “Elizabeth Proctor and Rebecca Nurse.”

The man scrolls his iPad, clicks a few things, clicks his tongue. He moves a pace to his left to uncover a keypad behind him and presses his thumb to the fingerprint reader on it. The mahogany doors swing open to reveal an opulent penthouse: industrial and sleek furniture, blonde hardwood, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a lake, a lot of pretty people in pretty clothes drinking out of champagne flutes and undulating against each other on the dance floor in front of the live band on the slightly raised dais or chatting with each other in dark corners or kissing each other draped over chic mid-century divans.

Mary snakes her hand beneath the fur to land on Hilda’s lower back and guide her toward the coat check. 

The fur is safely stowed, but Mary doesn’t remove her hand. Heel at lumbar, fingertips skimming oblique. Hilda doesn’t raise an objection, lets herself be directed although the contact is almost too much. Mary is so hot, figuratively to be sure, but literally as well. Any touch from her is a kind of fire, be it beautiful and leaping or destructive and consuming. It’s odd and off how physically warm the woman is.

They’re facing a waiter offering a tray of drink glasses.

Mary takes one, hands it to Hilda. She takes another for herself. They both drink, replace the empty glasses.

And they’re on the move again.

“Liz!” A generic rich woman shouts as she reaches for Mary’s forearm. Mary subtly deflects by placing her hand on Hilda’s hand which is entrenched in her elbow. “So glad you decided to come!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Mary says, squeezing Hilda’s hand.

Small talk, compliments about outfits, side comments about no longer needing Xanax, gossip about people Hilda doesn’t know. Yawn deluxe.

They endure several similar interactions with several similar women. It’s a lush party, decadent. Oysters and champagne and dreamy harp music. But Hilda is on edge, suspicious, waiting for something to reveal itself. She and Mary do things together; they don’t simply go places together. A small distinction that seems important and like the key to unlocking something hidden about why they’re attracted to each other.

Another generic rich woman. But this time her eyes are furtive. Perhaps she’s not been rich for as long as the others. She’s certainly not slovenly but not as polished as the others. Hilda pays more attention to the conversation, is more interested in this more awkward interaction. And the talk is a little more translucent, the barrier between brains a little more permeable.

Afterward Hilda pulls Mary against her at a cold glass plane, says to her,

“There’s got to be a reason you brought me here.”

Mary’s eyes flash. It’s a pretty flash but weird, too.

“I wanted to show you off. And I also wanted to dance with you,” Miss Wardwell says.

Hilda’s eyes trace Mary Wardwell’s legs encased in trousers. She’s conflicted. It could be seen as a waste, covering up those legs. Or it could be strategic. Covering up those legs so that anyone who’s already familiar with them can discern them whereas new eyes won’t look twice.

Hilda also caresses those words she’d said, assesses them. Mary’s trying to say something to appeal to her and appease her. Keep her in the dark in a sexy way. It’s the way they communicate—a hollow and echoing conversation that goes nowhere, bounces off itself and answers itself in a verdant valley between two mysterious mountains.

“But that’s not all,” Hilda says. “You wanted me to know you’re growing pot and selling it to all these people.”

Mary skims a forefinger along Hilda’s naked bicep, and a laugh bubbles out of her red mouth. She says,

“Well. When one has so much acreage and it’s legal, one does what one deems appropriate to increase one’s net worth.”

The one forefinger has turned into a fist, tightly gripping Hilda’s upper arm. Hilda sighs into it.

They’re both looking out the full-length window out onto the lake, shoulder to shoulder, pressed tightly against each other.

“But still,” Hilda says. “There’s no good reason for you to have brought me along.”

“No good reason except that I wanted to.”

Mary pulls Hilda to the dance floor, and they undulate against each other to the dulcet tones of the harp-led band. Mary’s fingers tangle in Hilda’s hair as they bump along. Mary dips her mouth to kiss Hilda’s neck and then husk into her ear,

“And don’t you want me to?”

“Want you to what?” Hilda breathes.

Mary’s eyes flash. It’s a pretty flash but dangerous, too. Sparks. Fire. All the incendiary things Hilda’s come to associate with Wardwell. 

Mary brightens, straightens her body. Fully erect and haughty, she says,

“Let’s get out of here.”

**Author's Note:**

> Haven’t watched season 3 yet. Still living in my sitcom fantasy world.


End file.
